


make me lose my buttons

by Byacolate



Series: what's your rush [3]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Frottage, Idiots in Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 02:17:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Today there’s a particular pair of big brown eyes peering down at him amidst the wall of faces, another genius and a prodigy just like him, a kindred spirit in a sea of <i>other</i> and Newt wants to impress him more than anything in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	make me lose my buttons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Akare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akare/gifts).



> For Akare, because you wrote me a blowjob, and it’s only natural to reciprocate.
> 
> In a lot of ways this is part of the _what's your rush_ series, like the timeline and the way they meet and their history, but in a way it diverges. A very porny way. So this could act as a standalone oneshot, or a pornographic spinoff, or a case of and-they-never-spoke-of-it-again.

 

_2020_

 

* * *

 

Trying to find one person in a sea of faces is a daunting task. It’s something Newt would never dispute, except it doesn’t take more than thirty seconds after receiving Hermann’s email to find him there in the bustling lobby. Sure, it helps that Hermann’s told him an approximation of where he’s standing and what he’s wearing (the dork), but Newt’s eyes sort of fall on him instantly.

 

Not that he’s had much help from Hermann in the way of identification markers. No photographs or cropped group pictures. Not even so much as a blurry selfie in four years of correspondence.

 

To be honest though, pics aren’t exactly hard to find, what with the internet open and yielding information on just about anyone’s heart’s desires. That’s not to say that Newt’s heart desired a selfie or two from Hermann Gottlieb, but - but Hermann’s not so big on the whole social media thing, either, which just means Newt has to check out official newspaper websites from Cornwall. That’s old school research right there. But there are a few little towns that yield results, because hometown glory is a thing, and a succession of acclaimed scientists working to perfect mecha to save the world - well. That was reason enough for a shitload of English papers to splash pictures of the project team all over their front pages any time new information emerged into the public domain.

 

Naturally, Newt has caught sight of Hermann in some of the pictures, never at the forefront or smiling, never one ounce of attention paid to the camera crew. There’s a video too, in a bookmarked YouTube tab on Newt’s laptop that is nearly twenty minutes long where the world-renowned Jaeger mastermind, Lars Gottlieb, goes on and on about the program in the middle of his lab. Hermann is nearly cut off by the camera where he’s standing in the back of the lab, writing furiously at a white board. The complicated algorithms and Hermann himself are always out of focus, but Newton knows it’s him.  

 

Newt’s seen plenty of pictures of Hermann Gottlieb, but it’s nothing compared to the real deal.

 

* * *

 

He’s sort of frowning down at his phone like it’s personally offended him, tapping away at it for a minute before he huffs and shoves it into his pocket, standing up straight and - what is that - is he trying to look nonchalant? He must be, because he’s doing his very best to keep the fact that he keeps glancing back and forth down the crowded hallway subtle, and there’s a bit of color rising in his cheeks. God, he’s pretty. The photographs really don’t do him justice.

 

It only takes a glance to see that Hermann put a real effort into his wardrobe. He’s managed to look both comfortable and professional with a cozy grey jumper over a white dress shirt and a light blue tie - seriously, a  _tie_ , what a dork - and he’s got dark slacks that fit him in a fashion that the upper class might call well tailored, but Newton likes to call  _damn_ those  _legs_.

 

He’s twenty three, but he looks about fourteen with his too-long limbs and big eyes and soft hair and the general air of nervousness about him. Newt doesn’t really have a nurturing bone in his body, but the sight of Hermann standing there just makes him want to - to - do  _something_.

 

So naturally, the only thing to do is waltz across the lobby and up into his space.

 

Never let it be said that Newt doesn’t cater to his impulses.

 

* * *

 

He’s always had a thing for blue eyes, but apparently that can change in a heartbeat because Newt is fifty shades of more-than-okay with the doe eyes Hermann has trained on him. His thin lips part as he takes Newt in, and yeah, he’s not much - definitely not one for height - but he knows interest when he sees it. Hermann is totally interested. Hopefully. God, Newt’s fingers are crossed. He’s had a brain boner for Hermann, like, since his first letter, and an  _actual_ boner only maybe two Google searches thereafter.

 

His short dark hair looks soft enough to touch but Newt reels in that particular impulse for the moment. He’s shared parts of himself with Hermann in the last four years than he has with pretty much anyone he’s ever known; if he scares him away this early in the game, he’ll punch himself right in the face.

 

“Is this what you’re wearing to your lecture?” Hermann blurts after their long moment of mutual assessment. The first words verbally exchanged between them. Normally, Newt would probably be affronted. He doesn’t even have holes in his jeans today, and his leather jacket is  _badass_ , okay? But he sort of knows Hermann, so all he does is snicker and adjust his glasses.

 

“Yeah, man. I’m not gonna strip or anything this time around.” Hermann’s brows wrinkle together, but he totally wants to laugh somewhere deep down inside. Surly is a good look on him. “Unless you think I should?”

 

“For god’s sake,” Hermann huffs. There’s color high in his cheeks and his mouth twists up in a lopsided smile. “And to think Cambridge _requested_ your presence.”

 

“Sorry? How else would this have worked, exactly?”

 

Hermann snorts and eyes the lapels of Hermann’s leather jacket speculatively. “Knowing you, you might have broken in and nattered the conference organizers into submission.”

 

Oh god, he’s flirting. This is how Hermann Gottlieb  _flirts_. This is how Newton and Hermann flirt - insulting banter, holy shit, he can get behind that 100%.

 

“Maybe,” he allows, shuffling a little closer as one lecture ends and a flock of snooty science nerds comes pouring into the already packed hallway. He has to raise his voice to be heard. “Yeah, okay, maybe it was a bit like that. I may or may not have wheedled my way into an invitation.”

 

Hermann really does smile then, laughing like it’s been startled out of him and ducking his head to hide it. “I’d expect no less from you, Doctor Geiszler,” he teases. Newt kinda wants to push him up against the wall.

 

“I swear to god, Hermann, if you ever call me Doctor again I’m gonna have to mess you up.”

 

Hermann laughs again, looking boyish and loose. Maybe Newt really will have to mess him up. Untuck his shirt. Yank out his tie. Ruffle his hair. Wreck his mouth. “Don’t strain yourself, Newton. You have a lecture to give in…” He looks down to check his watch - an actual wristwatch in 2020,  _what_ a dork - , “fourteen minutes.”

 

“Ugh, yeah. I’m  _starving_. Wanna grab a bite to eat?”

 

Hermann blinks. “You have a lecture to give,” he repeats carefully, like Newt’s slow on the uptake or something, “in fourteen minutes.”

 

Wow, he’s a bitch. Newton loves him pretty much instantly.

 

* * *

 

Newt usually doesn’t give two shits about how people look at him. He’s no stranger to skepticism - he’s got tattoos all over his arms and a wardrobe full of nothing but skinny jeans and ill-fitting t-shirts and  he received his first doctorate at 15. He’s the instructor younger than pretty much everyone else in the room, so yeah, he gets the dubious glances. Normally he lets it roll off him, no big deal. Except today there’s a particular pair of big brown eyes peering down at him amidst the wall of faces, another genius and a prodigy just like him, a kindred spirit in a sea of  _other_ and Newt wants to impress him more than anything in the world. He wants to rock Hermann’s socks off with his brainpower.

 

Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Newt opens his mouth and lets the rockstar out.

 

* * *

 

He’s a little bit drunk, maybe, a little bit giddy with the day’s success and the feel of someone else’s hands curled around the back of his neck. A shrill little giggle bursts out of his mouth and Hermann backs away just a bit, panting quietly.

 

“This is really cliche,” Newt breathes, can’t stop giggling now that he’s started. “Oh god, this is - we’re in a bathroom, how predictable can we be?”

 

The wine has made Hermann blotchy red and lazy in his movements. He reaches up and fumbles with Newt’s skewed glasses.

 

“It’s a nice restroom,” is all he manages, which predictably throws Newt into another peal of giggles. It  _is_ a nice restroom. It’s a nice restroom in a nice restaurant in Hermann’s nice hotel. They’re there because before Newt could so much as issue some shitty pick up line that afternoon, Hermann had asked him to dinner. Super classy stuff, too - insanely choice wine, tiny portions on big white plates for exorbitant prices, wait staff with upturned noses at Newt’s jacket. The works.

 

Hermann spent the entire dinner picking apart the math of Newt’s presentation, going so far as to even pull out a thrice-folded sheet of notes from his lapel, and that. That was just way too much material for Newt to ignore. They’d dissolved into hissed banter back and forth over their second, third, fourth drinks, barely taking the time to eat their itty bitty portions of overpriced steak. Somewhere along the line they’d ended up throwing out highly suggestive dares that bordered on violent innuendo and stumbed into the nearest bathroom and - well.

 

“No, you’re right,” Hermann mumbles, frowning down at himself as though his ire will magically right his unkempt appearance. “I will not become a cliche. Not when I have a room just down the hall.”

 

“Are you asking me back to your hotel room, Doctor?” Newt teases.

 

There is something so magical about a man done up with more buttons than the goddamn TARDIS having the audacity to slide his hand down to Newt’s ass and squeeze. “Are you accepting the invitation to my hotel room, Doctor?”

 

Magical. “Uh,  _yes_. A million yeses to that. Yep, let’s get the fuck out of here, just, yeah, don’t forget your cane there, man...”

 

“Bugger this thing,” Hermann mutters to himself, pursing his lips and patting along the wall of the stall for his cane. God, he’s cute. Newt is so fucked.

 

* * *

 

He’s thought about this about a thousand times over the last four years, what Hermann might feel like all against his body, how he likes to be touched, how he might kiss. He’s thought through some fairly pornographic scenarios, ranging from hardcore rutting and German dirty talk on Hermann’s desk to something sweet, slow, and totally vanilla with like a lot of kissing and maybe some candles (shut up, okay, now that Newt’s seen his fair skin up close, he  _knows_ Hermann would look stunning on a bed of rose petals).

 

He’s spent so much time kneeling between Dream Hermann’s thighs that now that he’s kinda knelt between  _actual_ Hermann’s thighs, it’s all a bit more overwhelming than his mind can handle.

 

“I’ve wanted this,” Newt finally groans into the hot salty flesh of Hermann’s hip, “for like, a million years.”

 

Hermann licks his lips and spreads his legs a little wider to accommodate Newt’s body, “Your gross hyperboles are bound to grow old very shortly, Newton.”

 

“Nah, they won’t.” He can feel Hermann’s leg trembling against his shoulder, so even though it’s nearly a physical pain to pull himself away from the fresh cotton and musk scent of Hermann’s waistline, he pushes himself off the ground and hauls Hermann away from the door.

 

He may act like a prickly pear, but he moves so easily when Newt nudges him, lies so sweetly in bed when Newt coaxes him down. Next time, Newt thinks, definitely rose petals. If Hermann doesn’t try to murder him first.

 

There are hands in his hair when he snickers into the hollow of Hermann’s throat, which has been such a serious fucking temptation for the past two hours since Hermann finally let loose and undid his top two buttons, holy  _god_. Newt dips his tongue into the hollow and skirts his teeth along a sharp collar bone just because it’s there. The fingers in his hair clench before they stroke down the back of Newt’s neck and between his shoulder blades.

 

He’s so hard he’s probably going to die, rutting sloppily against Hermann like a teenager, but he has to pause. At the moment Newt feels like he could devour Hermann alive, so he should definitely back off for a minute and maybe actually take off his glasses to properly regard the man underneath him. They’re chucked to the farthest side of the massive bed and Newt pants, staring down into Hermann’s dark, dark eyes.

 

“So this is the part where I ask you how far you wanna go, since we’re sort of intoxicated and not really of a mind to give total consent, and I don’t - know how you feel? About the situation? Any situation involving or not involving erections with me?” He stops himself abruptly. Even though they’ve only technically just met, it doesn’t really feel all that awkward to splay his palm over the side of Hermann’s long neck. “I mean, I know that I’ve wanted to bone you basically the first time you called me an hooligan because like, who even does that anymore? That’s not a word people  _use_ , Hermann. And I started getting really weird boners for you, like… rage boners sometimes, or nerdy talk boners, and like… dude. Once, hand to god, I was reading your letter at the DMV and I got an inferiority boner because you started talking about astrophysicist stuff that was beyond my level of comprehension. I chubbed up right there in the middle of a bunch of middle aged angry people on the ugliest blue chair you could imagine.”

 

Hermann is slack-jawed and speechless, his expressions twitching from shock to horror to amusement like he can’t decide which one to express.

 

“I -  _what_?”

 

Newt realises he’s been stroking the lobe of Hermann’s ear with his thumb - for how long, he can’t be sure. It’s a very cute earlobe, so he congratulates his subconscious for noticing and acting upon that before he consciously could. “Wow, has all the blood rushed out of your brain to your dick, or….?”

 

Hermann punches him in the shoulder.

 

“How can you be such a prick while you’re getting off on me?” Hermann squawks, glaring up at Newton. He’s really red though, and his mouth is a little bit swollen from where Newt’s been kissing him, so. Well. It’s probably not as menacing as Hermann would like it to be.

 

“What I was trying to say,” he grits out, flicking Hermann’s ear with his thumb, “is that we haven’t talked about this. Before. Ever. And you’re pretty tipsy, Hermann. I don’t think -”

 

“For god’s sake,” Hermann gapes. “We’re both adults! We’ve known each other for - for - years!”

 

“It’s still important, though,” Newt insists. He ruffles Hermann’s hair and darts down to kiss the protest out of him. Hermann doesn’t even try to pull back and issue any more barbs, just opens his mouth to Newt and runs a hand up his bicep. When he pulls away, Hermann’s eyes are a little glazed and he just looks confused and disgruntled and - Newt hesitates to use the word precious, because he’s never used that word to describe a human being before, and if he did Hermann would probably knock him out, but. It’s there in his head and it’s definitely not going away when Hermann whimpers a little as Newt puts a bit of distance between them.

 

“Newton, please,” he says, and stops himself. His jaw gets clenched up tight and his mouth goes narrow and unhappy, and he brings a hand self consciously to his throat. Protecting the vulnerable parts of himself from, from  _Newt_ and no, that just won’t do. Newt curls his hand over the back of Hermann’s wrist and pulls gently so he can press his face to the skin there.

 

“Hey,” he mumbles, kissing Hermann’s throat like he’s ever been capable of this kind of gentle intimacy before, “wherever your mind’s going, stop that. That’s exactly what I wanted to avoid.”

 

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” Hermann says stiffly. But he’s pressing his fingertips into the back of Newt’s neck, so it’s probably all gonna be fine. He sits up just enough to look Hermann in the face.

 

“Basically, I wanna do sexy things with you. And you wanna do sexy things with me.”

 

“That much I’ve gathered,” Hermann says dryly. Newt glares at him. Seriously, he’d had no idea Hermann was going to be so delightfully bitchy outside of his letters. Or that he was going to be so turned on by it.

 

“Great! Then to add to your overwhelming pool of data, you should know that I’ve wanted to do sexy things with you for a long time. The you in your letters, and now the you in your ridiculous tie and your fuzzy cardigan. I don’t know where you are though, man. Like, this could be the alcohol or something for you. And if one night of this ultra passionate sexing is gonna fuck with our - our  _thing_ , then I don’t want it. I mean, I want it, of course I want it, look at you,  _god_ , but. You know.”

 

Newton is levelled with the most amazing bitchface he has ever seen on a man covered in as many hickies as Hermann is.

 

“This is all  _very_ simple Newton,” he informs him. Is it even possible for somebody this tipsy to sound so condescending? Is it even ethically sound for anything so obnoxious to turn Newt on this much? “We are two adult men. It’s ludicrous to think that we might ruin our ‘thing’ just because we’re getting off together. Simply put, Newton, we won’t allow this ruin our… our dynamic, as it were.”

 

“Oh, it’s that simple, is it?” Newt snarks back grinding his hips down against Hermann’s to watch his eyelashes flutter and his mouth fall open. “So what, just - act like it never happened? Fuck each other’s brains out and move on to act like we always do?”

 

“If - if that’s what works,” Hermann breathes, gripping Newt’s ass and punching his pelvis up. Newt’s dick is probably hard enough to cut glass at this point, and he wastes no time yanking Hermann’s loose tie off and throwing it over toward his glasses. He unzips his fly and adjusting himself before cupping Hermann’s cock in his trousers. There’s a tiny part of his brain that wants to insist that they discuss this further, because it’s not just casual sex - it’s sex with Hermann Gottlieb, who enrages Newt as much as he does funny things to his insides. In his gut, it doesn’t _feel_ like a one night stand, like a bit of fun before they go back to whatever they’ve always been; it feels like a long time coming.

 

That alone should be enough of an omen to consider - Newt’s always been one to listen to gut instinct - but that little bit of his brain isn’t in his dick, and his dick is the one Newt is most concerned about at this point. So instead of following up or allowing for rational dialogue, he sticks his tongue down Hermann’s throat and shoves his hand into his pants. The noise Hermann makes when Newt’s bare hand palms at his cock has Newt on the edge of coming, and he has to tuck his head into the crook of Hermann’s shoulder and push him down to keep him from rutting against him. Hermann makes a strangled sound and hooks a leg - his good leg - over Newt’s hips and grinds up.

 

“I’m seriously gonna come if you keep that up,” Newt whines, trying to tug both Hermann’s trousers and briefs over the curve of his ass at the same time.

 

“That  _is_ the point,” Hermann hisses, releasing the grip his calves have on Newt to make the removal of his pants possible. Newt yanks them off and flings them over the side of the bed before he’s hopping back, somehow making his way out of the sinfully tight jeans. By the time he’s divested himself of everything but his boxer-briefs, and Hermann’s unbuttoned his shirt to bare his chest and stomach, they’re both staring at each other, panting and red and ridiculously hard. Newt’s eyes are kind of shit so he has to get much, much closer for a good look at the pale lines and dips and shadows along Hermann’s body. “We probably should have showered first,” Hermann mumbles, probably mostly to himself. In response, Newt buries his nose in the thatch of hair just between his lovely hip bones.

 

“I’m gonna suck you. Is that cool?” Hermann’s cock jumps in his hand and Newt smirks. “Awesome.”

 

* * *

 

Hermann’s dick is just so befitting of the rest of him, and Newt seriously can’t get over it. It’s cut and long and a pretty shade of pink that sort of matches the splotchy blush over Hermann’s face and chest. Newt’s always enjoyed being on the giving end of sex of the oral persuasion for every partner he’s ever had, but that weird twisty thing in his gut that reminds him that this is  _Hermann_ gives him a greater sense of appreciation as he goes down on him.

 

Newt can’t deep throat to save his life, but he’s working on it, makes up for it by dragging his tongue over every glorious inch of Hermann’s cock. He sucks the smooth head between his lips and tongues at the sensitive spot just under and Hermann cries. There’s something about the way he has to actively muffle it with the back of his hand that makes Newt thing Hermann is a bit of a screamer, and hopefully one day they’ll have the relative privacy to test that theory.

 

Hermann’s a bossy little shit too, which Newt had been expecting and still he delights in it. Not in his actions, but in his words. He doesn’t push Newt’s head down or thrust his hips up, but there is an exceptional amount of “right there”s and “no, not like that”s and “what are you doing, don’t stop, touch me more”s. Newt maybe has to pull back a few times to snicker at his demands, because fuck everything to little bitty pieces, Hermann is a cute motherfucker.

 

And when he comes, Newt swallows what he can; the rest that globs on his nose and over his eyebrow when he pulls away to jerk the last shocks of orgasm out of Hermann’s dick just makes him grateful that he’d had the foresight to remove his glasses.  

 

* * *

 

They don’t have lube because Newt’s optimistically packed bottle is in his hotel room down the street and Hermann wasn’t exactly prepared for this, so Hermann just ends up dragging Newt forward by the shoulders, then the hips, then the thighs until Newt is straddling his chest. There is no preamble, no time at all for Newt to make himself comfortable gripping the headboard before Hermann has the head of his cock in his mouth. Newt jerks in surprise, tipping his pelvis forward before he can stop himself, but Hermann takes it like a champ. His grip on Hermann’s thighs is ironclad, and his mouth is so  _greedy_ that Newt barely has time to mumble something incoherent at him before Hermann’s got him down his throat and presses a finger to Newt’s perineum with a swallow and that. That.

 

He has no words because he’s coming so fast, embarrassingly fast but so, so good. And Hermann doesn’t stop swallowing until Newt is begging, “Let, holy god, I can’t - nng,  _Hermann_ , fuck, fuck,” so he lets go.

 

And since this is Newt’s life and not a cutesy romcom, Newt does not gracefully roll over and fall perfectly parallel beside Hermann. Instead, when he tips over and miscalculates the distance in his post-orgasm haze, he ends up toppling headfirst over the side of the bed.

 

After a moment there is a strangled noise from atop the bed where Newton cannot see, dazed and confused as he is on the floor, but it quickly becomes apparent that Hermann is dying from laughter. And it just goes on and on, a great bellowing thing to incessant wheezing cackles, and finally just this beautiful soundless noise like Hermann actually cannot breathe anymore, and finally Newt pulls himself up to glare at him over the sheets.

 

Hermann has tears running down his red face and his mouth is stretched in the most dazzlingly beautiful smile Newt has ever seen. No snotty comment is forthcoming, nothing to poke or prod Hermann with until he taunts back. All there is is Hermann’s breathless laughter as he rolls himself over in the sheets for Newton’s eyes only.

 

“Oh, you poor dear,” Hermann hiccups, wiping at his face before stretching an arm out toward him. “Come back to bed. If you think you can manage it.”

 

Newton is so royally fucked that he’s not sure he’ll really be able to manage anything ever again.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Specialist' by Interpol: _You make me lose my buttons, oh yeah, you make me spit / I don't like my clothes anymore._
> 
> If you are so inclined, feel free to follow [my Tumblr](http://byacolate.tumblr.com/).


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